Wednesday, 1 August 2012

I showed No-Fun-Couver what it meant to be hardcore; or, just an idiot (Day 30)

The latter end of the Grouse Grind

I am on the plane to Toronto. My legs, knees, and body ache;
my brain hurts from fatigue. I was going to prepare a post about life on the
road as a rockstar. Is this a viable career path? I will save you all some time
and tell you no. Instead, I have an unexpected tale for you.

GD said it felt like a miniature van

It was
a sunny day as we drove from North Delta into Vancouver. We had made plans for
a sejour into Chinatown followed by dinner with our friend Cindy. But Greg had other
plans: he wanted to climb the Grouse Grind, a trail on a medium-sized mountain
just outside of the city. I was not
thrilled at the prospect, wearing tight jeans, a dress shirt, and a $10 pair of
flip flops. Life on the road had also taken its toll with my ponch sticking out
more prominently than it once did. But Dowling seconded the idea; I decided why
not. Greg provided some comforting words: “Don’t worry. It’s more vertical than
horizontal.” I misinterpreted that sentence.

The four
of us parked just outside; I found just climbing the gentle incline just to get
inside vexing. At the entrance I spied a group of BC Yuppies, dressed in flashy
athletic gear and water bottles strapped to their hips, in Yoga positions
getting ready for the climb. A large sign warned us of all the necessary provisions
for the hike of which we possessed none, especially water. Yet we paid no heed and
began.

We answered no to all of these questions

The
gentle incline became steeper and steeper. I started off slower than the rest,
struggling to keep my balance on the rocky terrain. But I settled into a good
pace. Then Dowling slowed down and
walked with me, a gesture I much appreciated. But then I noticed his panting.
His breaked more frequently; one quarter
of the way up, he could journey no more. He descended and waited in the parking
lot.

GD taking his final break

GD was
the next casualty. About 20 minutes later, we breaked again; afterwards, he
said he could go no further without water and removing his hipster jeans. I
suggested he take them off, but he shuddered at the idea. I was, however,
feeling invigorated by the exercise and my strength persisted. Flips flops made
the climb trickier, but it didn’t make the cardio-vascular aspect more challenging. Greg and I pressed on for
the top. I snacked on a small portion of mushrooms. Shortly after, we made it
to the top. My legs were exhausted, but I had done it. I had climbed the Grouse
Grind in flip flops.

The view wasn't what I had hoped for

But the
honeymoon ended quickly: after I came up, I came up. I felt ill, light headed,
and paranoid; I realized we had to descend. There were three options: the
first, a gondola ride which packed people in as if it was the Tokyo subway; I
didn’t feel up for that challenge. The second was an alternative trail down a steep
cliff twice as long; given that GD and Matt were waiting in the parking lot,
that option would please few. Lastly, to descend down the trail we just
climbed, which was against park rules and full of rule abiding professionals
getting a climb in before bed. All options equally as daunting, I choose the
third.

We
began descending the main trail, passing many steady stream of panting
climbers; I heard many quick exhales. Then my haggard mind made a conclusion:
they were laughing at me. Indeed, from the feet up, I looked ready for the
club; from the feet down, the beach. I descended for 10 minutes and my legs
were convulsing. Many probably doubted that I would make it down. What had I gotten
myself into? Thankfully, we at least had the good sense to procure some water.

Shortly
after starting, I needed a break. But they did little for my legs and only gave
other climbers more time to look, laugh, and comment. Some expressed disbelief;
one was even impressed. Having had enough, I pressed on. The spasms intensified.
But I had to keep going: the entire situation was my fault and everyone was
waiting for me. The narrow path also made it treacherous. As descending this
way was against the rules, I needed to find alternative routes which involved
sliding and jumping. After one such detour, I was unable to stop my momentum
and grasped for tree just before I was to fall down a steep, rock filled slope.

\My slow descent down the rocky path

The
stream of climbers increased. They looked at me like some sort of spectacle.
The BCers appeared ready to climb Mount Kilimanjaro whereas I was totally
unprepared. This even aroused anger: one girl muttered as I passed, “You look
like a fucking joke,” as if I was belittled the entire endeavor. I probably
did. But for the most part people
laughed. Others made fun of me in other tongues, but their tone gave themselves
away. I maintained a stoic expression to show these BC climbers this was no big
deal, even though I was pushing my body harder than ever before. Yet things began to improve as I reached the
half-way point: the weakness of my legs plateaued and my mind calmed. I also
realized this was going to make an excellent blog post. I even thought to stop
and taking a picture.

Greg needed to do some recovering as well

The
vegetation began to change, the path became less rocky, and we could hear
traffic again. I knew we were getting close. I was exuberant. I even began to
walk with some swagger in my steps. Then the parking lot appeared. I was going
to make it. Whereas these yuppies struggled to complete the climb with their
expensive shoes, synthetic clothing, and energy drinks, I did it with no
provisions, in sandals and skinny jeans, and having been on tour for the past
30 days, which involved much sitting in the van, drinking, and being a fat ass.
To what do I attribute my success? The power of my mind: never once did I think
I would not make it; never did I let the pain get in the way of my goal. I knew
it would end and it did. I had shown the self-proclaimed outdoors people of BC
what it really meant to be hardcore.

I
collapsed into the front seat of the van and we drove to meet up with our
friend Cindy, another casualty of my poor decision. Greg pulled onto the Trans
Canada; there was no merging lane and he slammed on the breaks; a car whizzed
by us. It pained me to think that turning onto the highway was more dangerous
than the entire journey I had just completed.